Crime and Punishment
by Hylander McLeod
Summary: AU, Post NFA. Part of a Compilation-. Story Four. Holtz had taken his vengeance. He thought it was over. He thought he had won. He thought wrong.


Disclaimer- as you already know. As you always will. This fic is my ownership and not the TV series

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><p><strong>Crime and Punishment<strong>

He was surrounded by a dark void.

There was no road, no path, be it of rock or gravel, of clay or dirt. At least none that he could see. The absence of light of any variety, not even the faintest flickers from a faraway fire, or the crimson outline of the setting sun, no beacon of any sort, that could perhaps give way to his whereabouts Nor was there any presence of wind here either. There was not a slight breeze to . Nor was there a raging tempest to beat and batter the human body, to lash at the bones like whips or burn the skin like hot irons. There was rainfall or sunshine, no thunder to be heard or lightning strikes to be seen, no nature to feel out, so as not to walk into tree or walk off a cliff. There was nothing but blackness, am abyss of dark as far as the eye can see. _If_ the eye could see.

Wherever he was, Daniel Holtz knew he wasn't in hell.

He had been a biblical man, not a man of the cloth, but a believer and follower of God's design. He had long forsaken choice; that the self existed on strength of heart, of spirit and of will. No, for him God was the decider. He would decide whether you fed or starved, whether you prospered or withered, whether you were rose or fell. Time on earth meant sacrifice, sacrifice of one's own desires to suit the Lord so he may accept into his kingdom and not cast you out, into the ranks of Azazel and Lucifer.

He had been cast out. There was no towering mountain with a stone to be rolled, one that would always slip to the bottom when pushed up halfway, despite the repeated attempts and continued effort. He was not before a pool of water that would shrink away should he attempt to quench his thirst. He was not to endure a river of fire or lie frozen in cold lake. He was not to climb treacherous cliffs to a top unseen whence where he would be set upon by horrid beasts only to plunge to the base of the precipice he had just climbed.

No he had been robbed of sight, sound and touch; all senses numbed to the point where nothing existed. Nothing but time. And Him.

"Confused, are you ?."

The voice was not welcoming. It wasn't hostile either. If there was a word to describe, given his limited knowledge of that modern era, it would be monotone; it just was.

Nonetheless Holtz was angry. Had he not done enough to receive judgment? Why would some it not fit to let him be, to abandon him to fate; a damnation which he himself willing chosen?

About to speak his piece he was taken aback when feeling returned to him once more.

Still seeing and sensing nothing, he felt himself lifted by another's grasp; his mouth and nose both enveloped.

"You don't leave just yet Holtz. You have a debt to be repaid. I intend to see its collection."

For all his refusal to go away easily, the aged vampire hunter's struggles were all for naught. Any attempt to throw off his attacker proved useless. The grasp upon his face grew firmer, though he felt no added pressure upon his skull. He sought t bring his hands up to remove the offending arm off of him, only to find himself immobile, unable to move, or even shake. It was evident: the bind he was in was not of the earthly variety.

Holtz began to feel faint. Surprisingly his dependency for oxygen remained even after death had claimed him.

Just as suddenly as it had bound him in its powerful grasp, that same force unexpectedly released. Holtz dropped to what must have passed for the ground.

"When the debt you owe is due. The years at last return to you."

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><p>Connor Reilly tossed about in his sleep.<p>

He was dreaming.

He seldom dreamt while he slept.

The messengers of Morpheus rarely invaded his sleep whether he slept at home in his own bed or in Stanford dormitory at Palo Alto. Even after he initially took over as head of, a then temporarily defunct, Angel Investigations the nights which he slept, or rather the few hours in the time between late night and daybreak, his rest had always been undisturbed.

Lately, this was not the case. Dreams had become frequent guests of the recesses of his nightly repertoire, regardless of his request for their company. Once he entered deep, peaceful slumber the dreams came.

Just one dream, actually.

This night was no different.

He was seated at the dining table in the Hyperion hotel, set to enjoy a Thanksgiving dinner with the rest of Angel Investigations; his family. Angel was seated to his right, at the head of the table, his place as head of household or leader of clan. Cordelia, his surrogate mother sat directly across from him, Lorne and Wesley taking up place beside her. To his left were Winifred Burkle, or Fred as she liked to be called, and Charles Gunn, Fred taking center seat, with Gunn and himself seated at her sides, on either end of the table. Dishes of every variety clustered the table, as the group passed plates around, exchanging thanks and pleasantries as they did so, before helping themselves to portions of food laid before them.

Angel was smiling, as was Cordelia. Fred and Gunn looked happy. The entire room was baking in aroma of joy and contentedness.

Suddenly a cold tore through the room, though unlike him, none of the others had felt it. Standing off to the corner slightly behind Angel and to side of Cordelia was ….. _himself ?_

No not exactly himself, but as c close as you can get. His eyes were rivers of malice. Hatred painted his face, hatred that he once himself expressed after letting himself be manipulated by a shell of a man driven by vengeance he had lost all sense of reason, all distinction between right and wrong, even all his humanity.

The doppelganger fixed a cold glare towards Connor, still seated at the table. A stake was clutched in his right hand, one he'd slipped from the within the folds of his jacket.

"Savor the moment."

The stake flew from his hand. Just as the wooden splint grazed the back of Angel' torso it all went blank.

The vision vanished. The room, the gathering, even the presence of the mimic.

He'd found himself atop the Hyperion, watching the scene as it unfolded. Two vampires, Spike and Angel, both wielding broadswords, Charles Gunn, wounded and bloodied, armed with a large battle axe and Illyria stood prepared, eying the army that was bearing down upon them.

Four weary warriors.

Up against thousands. Against tens thousands.

For a moment he let himself dwell on the resemblance between the telling of a great battle from history class and the situation before him.. The four outnumbered heroes boldly marking their final stand, truly was reminiscent of the battle of Thermopylae, where Spartan king Leonidas and 300 warriors went toe to toe with the legions under command of Persian king Xerxes.

He moved to jump from the roof, seeking to throw himself into the fray and join the battle, though he knew five over four would make little difference, alongside Angel and the others but found himself immobilized, unable to move or a take a step forward. Shackles and manacles unexpectedly encircled his ankles and wrists, keeping him locked in the spot where he stood. The message was clear: he was a spectator not a participant.

The battle started.

The black man, Charles Gunn, was the first of the team to feel the cold welcome of death. His condition was worse for wear even before the hoards of monsters descended upon the group; blood trickling through his fingers and from the wounds in stomach. Connor Reilly looked on, as the man fought on despite the already fatal injuries received, perhaps when faced with the vanguard, as opposed to now dealing with the full force of the enemy. Again and again he brought down his battle axe, splitting the next foe that came upon him relying on nothing but shear will [power, his strength of heart and refusal to surrender. And while heroics make a fantastic Hollywood storyline, there's no such script in reality. The blood continued to seep from his wounds, both old and newly sported, his strength faded away and then there was nothing.

The blond vampire, Spike, whom Connor first met and Wolfram and Hart, before knowing the full truth about Angel, or perhaps once again knowing where he was concerned, as his own stolen memories rewritten to grant him a new life along with some measure of peace and serenity when he was ready to end it by blowing himself up with C-4 along with Cordelia and the numerous others, hostages he had taken within the mall …. If he were conscious Connor would have cursed himself for digressing. The blond vampire fought on just as Gunn had, battling despite the odds. Watching both your front and your six simultaneously is tumultuous task, even for a vampire. A link of a sanjiegun protruded out from his chest cavity and only ashes remained as the second fallen warrior too left to join Death's kingdom.

Illyria, the God-king, whom Connor now knew from the journals as the being of old who had reborn to this world by burning Fred's very soul in something called the Fires of Resurrection, seemed to partake in the blood fest for the sake of the battle more than the cause. The blue haired woman, he wasn't sure if woman was a term the ancient could be identified with, blazed out her path, intent on inflicting as much carnage as possible. Her blows- he noted that unlike the others she fought barehanded- broke limbs, shattered skulls and left split bodies, the remains non identifiable as to what they were, let alone to whom they belonged. But even a God-King only can do so much, especially one whose power was lessened, another truth he'd picked up from the journal, and though she and Angel had lasted longer than Spike and Gunn, the infinite forces of Wolfram and Hart could only be subdued for so long. Each new opponent was fresh, and the four fighter's stamina had its limits. She too fell to their might, overwhelmed and overpowered.

Angel, the centerpiece of the group, was the last to go. He fought on, broadsword at the ready, prepared to make the next swing, bidding a silent thanks and farewell to each compatriot as each had fallen and met their fate at the hands of the onslaught brought upon by the Senior Partners; the trio of ancient demons that were the driving force and the engine of Wolfram and Hart. Resistance started with Angel almost five years ago, that one solitary morning that Angel made his presence known to the enemy walking into the boardroom of one Russell Winters, pushing past Lindsey MacDonald, the young and ambitious lawyer, and having a short conversion- if one can call it that- with the vampire businessman before mocking him and kicking the demon through a window. From that point he frequently crossed swords with the demonic law firm with others flocking to his side each one for their own reasons. His friends had rallied behind him suffering heavy consequences and heavy cost, a gruesome fate and an early grave. One by one they fell until the ensouled vampire was alone again; one against an army.

His resolve never faded, even as he was cornered and forced to his knees before being decapitated with his very own sword, as he shared in the others fates, going out in a blaze of glory.

Connor Reilly bolted up in his bead, awakening in a cold sweat.

Six nights.

Six nights he'd had the same dream, that one single dream which he knew to be a lingering memory

Glancing over, he checked the digital clock on the night stand beside his bed- 5:20 am.

Connor shook his head and buried his face in hands, his fingers massaging his forehead. Sleep was elusive. He'd known that from the five other times he'd found no rest upon being awakened in the same manner. Try as he might he would not drift back into silent slumber.

The young man sighed. Throwing off the sheets completely, he got out of bed, slipping his feet into the shoes placed at his bedside ad walked over to the washroom. He emerged five minutes later wide awake though still weary. Getting dressed, he decided checked in on Faith and Nina. Finding both locked in deep slumber, Connor headed down to the lobby. Scribbling a note he left it on the reception desk I the check in area, and left the hotel.

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><p>Six weeks, it had been.<p>

Six weeks, since Holtz found himself back on earth, in that very hotel room where he'd staged his own murder; his final act of vengeance for his family. His life's purpose complete, he readied himself to enter Death's kingdom.

Yet Death did not claim.

The cruel fate of yet another demon, one he did not know, had stranded him back amongst the living, back to that same point and yet to one not the same.

The wounds from the ice pick, done by Justine on his orders, simulating a vampire attack were gone; faded. Not even scars of stab wounds remained. He found himself restored to his more youthful features, to the same very likeness he had when Sahjhan first appeared over two centuries ago offering a deal- a means to exact his revenge. A means which the vampire hunter gladly accepted having little else to live for than see the death of his quarry at the same time being the instrument to their destruction.

He expected to find Sarah, his own daughter, among others of like fate; another number among the digits of the damned. .

Instead he found himself among the living once more without explanation, a puzzling enigmatic message as his only accompaniment. He had sought several times to rid himself of his newly granted revival yet the task was obscured at every turn.

He tried slicing his wrists. The blood, normally seeping out of the wounds, hardened refusing to flow, no matter how deep the knife drove into the flesh. Slicing his neck yielded the same result.

Taking a revolver proved useless, whether he fired it at the temple, the throat or the heart, the chamber stalled, refusing to fire, no matter attempts. Yet the same one revolver worked well in succession, each bullet rang straight and true when aimed at any other target.

Poisons, drugs, intoxications even starvation and dehydration proved useless.

With each failed attempt at suicide, no doubt foiled by the being who denied him his passage, the same message echoed in the air- _debt to be paid for your last day._

The vampire hunter would not allow himself to be beaten. He'd won against multitudes of demons, countless scores of soulless creatures, he would win again. Invigorated by his masterful victory over Angelus, he resolved not be beaten every again. He would win and claim his rightful passage into damnation. He had earned it.

His multiple odysseys had taken him through virtually every corner of Los Angeles, and its surrounding suburbs. More often than not, the vampire hunter's actions were deliberate, hoping perhaps by happenstance he'd come upon the means for his obsession, death by a stray bullet in a holdup or an crushed and buried by falling debris brought about by California's earthquakes , perhaps even be caught within a blaze or a run over by a long distance haul or some other vehicular accident.

All proved useless. True to the messenger's words no course he took would play out in his favor. Determination and defiance aside, Holtz would not meet conditions of a such; victim of circumstance, wrong place wrong time avoided him consistently and with relative ease.

On one such occasion, yet another foolish attempt to manipulate his way into Death's circle, among the quaint community of Santa Monica Holtz saw something he'd never expected. Or rather _someone_ he'd never expected. He'd turned a corner , climbing a top a bluff to walk into a melee between a rather familiar adolescent engaged in combat with the town's _darker_ community.

Holtz watched by as the young man ducked to avoid a blow from the vampire, before delivering an uppercut to the creatures chin. The blow, normally causing lesser victims to stumble back in surprise and some degree of discomfort, did little do disorient the demon, but it gave the boy the slight moment of advantage needed as he spun around backhanding the vampire to the neck before delivering an axe kick, the blow of which caused the creature to drop limp to the ground. He finished the deed with a stake to the back, hurtling it with force enough to sever the bone, muscle and tissue and pierce the heart from the rear.

The boy's momentum brought him directly into the sight of the one watching the scene that had just transpired. Two sets of eyes met.

"Steven"

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><p>Connor Reilly was not in a good mood. Right now he couldn't remember a point within his life here he had been in a good mood. Within his real life that is. He'd known well enough that as to the truth of his origin and Connor Reilly was but a farce, a persona developed by a complexly fabricated ruse, one that had duped not only him but his <em>parents<em>- Lawrence and Colleen he corrected-, his _siblings, friends, neighbors_ and every living soul upon the planet that would otherwise be wary of the truth otherwise. His father, _Angel, _had it done so, in an attempt to give his own son some measure a peace and sanity, a life and memory that would allow him to function in this world.

He had plenty of such euphoric feelings implanted in his memory, He'd clearly recalled the memories that weren't his own, still saw clear as day the fabricated lies that were now reality. His true identity, his true life was marred by pain, hurt and indecision. Not indecision in the fail to act sense but in his inability to demonstrate autonomy, to make judgment and take action based on his own feelings rather than going along with what was favorable to the rest.

To make matters worse, the source of it all was now standing before him.

Unable to sleep, plagued by the aftermath of Angel's last stand he chose to venture off into the Los Angeles night life in hopes the visions would abandon him. He'd been set upon on unsuspecting by a vampire duo both of whom hoped to catch him off guard. He'd just finished off the second one to find himself within the presence of last person- _no, the last being-_ he'd ever wanted to see.

"Steven." Holtz spoke, acknowledging him.

The blow came fast and without warning. Daniel Holtz found himself sprawled on his back, the young man looming over him, his eyes cold and unfriendly.

"My name is Connor." The young man spat out.

Holtz swore inwardly.

First he'd been denied his death. Now he was robbed of his vengeance as well. The boy had taken his former lifestyle, accepting Angelus and forsaking the one who had brought him up. Was there no justice within this world.

"You dare raise your hand me?" he questioned sternly. "I brought you up. I raised you, taught the truth things and now you throw them back in my face?"

"Raised me?" Connor scoffed. "You used me, Holtz. I was nothing more but another tool for your vendetta. Your own son never had a chance to live, so you made sure my father's wouldn't either. You molded me in your image, made sure I'd never function in this world, and on top off that you made damn sure I'd never feel anything for the ones that truly cared about me."

Holtz gripped his fists. This boy dared question the righteousness of his cause.

"Don't presume to lecture me. I had a right to my vengeance-"

"Vengeance belongs to God." Connor cut off the middle-aged looking man mid speech. "The Church preaches forgiveness but you never considered that to be of relevance did you?"

Holtz took a step forward. "Don't preach things you know nothing about, boy. You're not the one come home to the slain bodies of your wife and only son, to find your only daughter turned into the same abominations that had committed the murders. If you'd have lost your family you'd see things my way."

He took swing at the young man.

Connor easily intercepted the strike, pulling his attacker towards him. He twisted the man's arm in his grip, forcing it behind the man's back. With his free hand he grabbed Holtz around the chest, immobilizing him in place by a firm grasp on the man's right shoulder.

"I did lose a family." He spoke softly, his voice cold and icy. "All thanks to you. My father ended up making a devil's deal, because my life and sanity was something he couldn't say no to. He and the others entered a battle they couldn't win, a last stand by righteous few against an insurmountable evil simply because it was the right course of action, a direct consequence that all leads back to you and your undying hate, a blood thirst you just couldn't quench until you stole what was stolen from and then some. Six lives destroyed. Six that I know of and who how many others along with them."

Connor felt his eyes itching. Unwilling to cry in the face of his enemy, he let go of Holtz and pushed him aside. He turned away and rubbed them out stopping the tears from falling.

The sun was now rising up just over the Hollywood Hills, baking the city in bright array of gold. Connor straightened out and shifted his gaze, staring at the horizon.

"Look at them" he spoke softly. " Hundreds of lost souls with no one to turn to. Who'll help steer them on right path when they falter? " He glanced back at Holtz before continuing. "Certainly not you. Vengeance- that was your only gig. You never care about anyone else and you never will."

Having no more desire to remain anywhere near the man who had done him and his family such harm, he left.

"And what would you do then?" Holtz countered, yelling at to youth's retreating back. "Kill me to avenge that demon?"

Connor stopped briefly. He shook his head.

"No. Angel would have taught me better than that. He would expect more me."

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><p>Before you get all bitchy at me understand two things. Firstly I am heavily pro Angel. Holtz had done him, Connor and others such harm, some directly some indirectly and I wouldn't want him getting off scot free. I wanted Holtz to get his due. Punishment befitting the crime so to speak. All Holtz had to do was let go of his hate, and Angel wouldn't have had to make a devil's deal when it came to Connor so ….. this popped up.<p>

Second for what the specifics of the punishment that awaits Holtz I leave you to guess to it. I was going to expand on it initially but now the plan is to have it as a side story. I do have a lot of ideas but I' hitting road blocks as to how to write them. I haven't abandoned Own My Own Worst and Enemy or Penance for My Sins but the writing's been hard. I will continue it just so you know.


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